Little Flame
by Snulk
Summary: Gweneviere dies giving birth to Arthur's child. Evean dies in the heat of battle with the Saxons. Arthur and Illora come to terms with their sorrow only through each other.


Note: Artorious, Gawain, Galahad, Bors, and any of the other people I mentioned in this story except for Illora and Evean, are not mine.

PS- Please, no flaming. And, if you like it, please review. It's nice to get some comments.

**Little Flame**

She stood on the battlefield, her heart sinking deep within her chest at the sight of so many corpses. She would never find him in all of this, but still she searched. She began her descent from the hill, her bare feet slipping about in bloodied soil. The wind sent by the Mother Goddess whirled around her, sending her hair a-flight as it guided her to the side of her deceased love one.

Yet, she labored through the maze of the dead. Men were cremating the bodies near the outskirts of the woods, the stench of rotting flesh and burning hair filled her nostrils, and she choked. It was unbearable. Their ashes flew through the cold winter air and mixed with the lightly falling snow. A chill crept into her bones, the hems of her skirts drenched and heavy with the spilled blood of the Saxons.

She found him, lying face down into the upturned soil. The earth had given him a soft bed to sleep in amongst the cold coffins the Saxons lay in. She ran to his aid, grabbing at her skirts and she trudged through the gore, only to kneel at his side in the spilled intestines of another. Pulling him into her arms, she begun to sob. Brushing the blood caked hair from his face, and closing his dead eyes, she kissed his cheek gently, weeping over his lifeless form.

Her beloved brother, Evean, lay still. His skin ashen with death, and his armor punctured by three well placed arrows. Mournfully, she prayed over his body, heaving with her grief. Her cries echoed out into the light of the dawn, resonating and amplified by the quiet of the battlefield. Carefully, she gathered to her feet, and begun her arduous journey home, carrying her brother on her back.

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He watched her from the shadows cast by the flickering flames that ate at the dead flesh. She was alone in her search, no man beside her to help bear the burden with which she was laden down. Her sobs echoed throughout the battlefield, and her prayers went unanswered. With a scream of rage and sorrow, she bellowed her curses to the gods and goddesses that had the duty of protecting him.

She rose from the earth, carrying the dead man on her shoulders. She stumbled through the lines until she reached the safety of valley. There she paused for breath and drink. Lowing her skin from her mouth, her eyes caught his.

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He was a solitary soldier, surviving the battle which lay before their eyes. He sat atop a white steed, his armor gleaming in the first rays of the dawn. His eyes were fixed to her, and despite her glazed but steady eyes, he did not waver.

She watched as two other knights strode up to meet him, their horses dark like the night. They spoke loudly over the roaring fires kindling behind them. He nodded, and began to speak.

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"Give that woman a horse, and give her my condolences," he ordered, before turning from the field and fleeing off into the woods. Galahad and Gawain watched as he disappeared at a gallop. Their eyes turned to the woman, stumbling under the weight of the dead man. Watching for only a moment, before trotting over with one of the guard's mares to meet her. "He wishes you to have this horse, and offers his apologies for your loss," the blond haired man said firmly. Glancing behind them, her eyes lingered on the spot where Artorious had been only moments before, a sense of appreciation slipping into her eyes, giving softness to their grieving harshness. She nodded her thanks before laying the dead body across the pommel of the saddle, and leaping upon the white beauty, galloping away from the vicious fires that threatened to poison her with their noxious fumes.

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At home, she tied the mare to her post, and pulled the body of her brother into her arms. Her gentle tears bathing him as she carried him into the house of her father. She laid him gently on her bed, and struggled to remove his armor, and the arrows buried deep within his chest.

Sadness buried its own arrows into her heart, matching her brother's wounds, as she carried a bowl of warm water and a clean towel to wash away the blood and prepare him for a proper burial and the afterlife.

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At the dinner table, Arthur remained silent as the celebration of their victory over the Saxons filled the halls with raised voices slurred by drink. His thoughts meandered on the battlefield, and the face of the woman that had come to collect her husband, brother, or lover. She had been so young, too young to witness a loss in her family, and too young to fetch the dead herself.

Her bare feet had been stained crimson with the blood of the fallen Saxons, the fallen Romans. And her body bent underneath the heavy frame of the soldier. Her screams of rage and sadness filled his mind with sorrow. And before he knew it, he was dismissing himself from the table, to mull his life over alone.

As he rose from his chair and left the hall, Gawain gripped him from behind. He whispered so no others could hear, "My brother, is it Gweneviere?" Gawain's eyes were filled with sorrow at the mention of the brave woman's name. She had been Arthur's sole companion when the men were out cavorting through the town. She was the only one who managed to look behind the plated armor, and wreaths of victory to see his loneliness and sadness.

Arthur remained silent, turning away from Gawain, to continue his climb to his room. Gawain watched as he moved away, and spoke quickly, "Arthur, the woman in the field this morning? She sends you thanks." Arthur smiled gently, keeping his face hidden from Gawain, pausing on the stair until he heard Gawain's footsteps disappear into the ruckus of the feast.

In his room, he mourned her loss, kept company by his memories of her love. "Dear God, she shouldn't have been taken from me so quickly, and in such a feeble manner. She had been a fighter. She was full of passion and love of her people. She should not have died this way…" His tears rained hard upon his cheeks, never seeming to let up. Gweneviere had died a year before, taking with her his child, and his love.

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She lay in the warm water, scrubbing the blood and gore off her dark skin. She shuddered in the dark as she dressed and combed her long hair away from her face. Silently, she set about dinner and smiled gently to her father as she entered his room. He lay ill and dying, each breath laboring. He smiled to her, gently taking her hand into his and placing a kiss to her skin. "Tell me daughter, how is my son? Any news?" he whispered hoarsely. She shook her head, "No father, Evean is still fighting for the Romans. He's protecting us from the Saxons." The old man spat upon hearing the name of the people Rome was at war with. "Those heathens, do not speak of them in my house," he scolded. She nodded gently, obliging. "Come father, sit up. I've made you a meal fit for a king."

The old man smiled, and opened his mouth allowing her to feed him. The soup was warm as it rushed down his throat. Each swallow took strength, and his hands shook with the effort. After he finished his meal, she smiled taking a fresh rag, moistening it with water, and gently washing away the soup that had escaped his mouth. She lowered him back into his bed, and pulled the blankets around his shoulders. She knelt beside him, and led their prayer. She smiled and kissed him gently on the forehead before leaving the room and whispering, "Sweet dreams, father."

Back in her room, her brother lay still. Curling up by his feet, she set to sleep. Her tears lulled her into the world of darkness, where no pain exists, only fantasies conjured up in your head. She smiled gently, before falling into complete slumber, as her mind flickered to the vision of the man on the white horse, before he disappeared into the woods.

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The funeral was solemn, and not one person had told her father that tragedy which had fallen upon the family. She thanked the goddess for that, and for the forgiveness the night brought with its darkness. Tonight she would grieve in the way of the men, and lose herself in the company of wine and men.

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Hours later she found herself laughing and carrying on with the musicians that played only to stop for a swig of wine and to take requests. She smiled as they begun to play a song that she hadn't heard for a very long time. A song that her father used to sing when he was young, and still able. A song that her father used to sing when her mother was still alive. Sometimes they had sung it together, with her and her brother mesmerized by the intensity in which my mother had played the fiddle. How she missed those memories so.

Stepping out onto the dirt clearing in front of the musicians, Illora stood proudly waiting for the familiar trill of the fiddle. She heard it and begun to dance to its frenzied wailings. Her steps were light and sure, and the loose dirt drifted into the air, creating a wave of dust in her path. Her dark eyes danced along with her body, and as the men shouted and hollered at her, she smiled, a gentle laugh sweeping from her mouth.

The musicians slowed the pace into another song of yore, and she let her movements glide along with the bellowing of the strings. Her eyes wandered the crowd, the men with their mouths agape and the women smiling in adoration. Then she saw him, leaning against the bar next to the barmaid's husband, Bors. He was watching her every move, entranced, his blue eyes piercing her through and through, and suddenly she felt scared. The alcohol in her system no longer providing her the confidence with which she needed, and as the song ended, she nodded before quickly moving away from the bar, and into the night air.

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Gawain and Galahad had been watching from afar, discussing the low morale of their friend and leader. Galahad smiled watching the girl, while Gawain noticed something else. He elbowed Galahad in the side, "Galahad… do you see what I see?" Galahad turned to his friend, perturbed, "Yeah, a beautiful woman dancing. Right?" He took a swig from his mug as a large hand crashed down on his back. He coughed, sputtering the beer from his mouth, and glared at Gawain. Gawain didn't notice Galahad's glare, but pointed towards Arthur and his mesmerized eyes.

Galahad, still in his own little world, wondered aloud, "Gawain, isn't that the girl from the battlefield? The one we gave a horse too?" Gawain's mind went into labor, and turned to the man beside him, conspiring in the dark.

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She entered the room quietly, her head bowed in shame. Gawain and Galahad laughed outside the door, their footsteps heavy as they walked away. She raised her eyes, and let out the breath she had been holding. No one was there. She went over to the window, the night breeze gently kissing upon her face. She was smiling, but tears wandered down her cheeks in sadness.

A warm hand gently cupped her face, the thumb pushing away the tear that threatened to fall. He stood close to her side, his crystal blue eyes washing over her in tides of sympathy. Despite his tenderness, she was frightened. Seeing her fear, he turned away, taking a seat at the desk by the window. His head hung low, the edges of his beautiful mouth turned downwards as he sighed lightly. She watched him from across the room, her fear soon softening into empathy.

Slowly she wandered to his side, kneeling at his feet. Her dark eyes no longer holding fear as she held his gaze. Her hands ran over his firm thighs, his stomach, his chest; her body snaking upwards hovering close to his form, but never touching.

Outside the voice of a woman rose high and loud, a trance-like trill and tremble as she praised the goddess and the night of the full moon. Illora smiled devilishly, as the woman's voice drifted through the open window. The great knight's breath grew ragged as she tempted. He asked in a husky whisper, "What is your name, woman?" She smiled, taking his hands in hers, and pulling him up from the chair. Pushing him towards the bed, she whispered, "Illora."

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His knee pushed between her legs, opening her to him. The feel of his warm breath on her skin sent her shivering with passion. Her hands snaked through his dark hair, and pulled him close, his lips hovering above hers as he entered her with sweet affection. Ardent kisses set skin blazing with obsession's flames. Her lithe legs wrapped around his waist, allowing for more depth with each stroke, each thrust.

His kisses were like the replenishing rains that lapped at the most dry of climates. He pressed against her, his frame all encompassing, in an aggressive yet protective embrace. She kissed the hollow of his throat as he pushed further into her. His groans were sweet music to her ears, and in response she arched her back, nipping at the flesh of his chest. Lust left its mark upon the two, a glow of angelic light that misted around them like the saints' halos. He quickened his pace. Her nails racing down his back, scratching so deep that blood rose to heal his damaged skin.

Arthur watched as the beauty below him parted her lips and let slip the most rewarding of all moans. The moan of complete satisfaction. "Artorious!" she shouted into the barren night, her voice echoing through the halls of the castle. Inside her, the walls constricted around him, sending him into his own spirals of orgasm. A great roar rumbled within his chest as he released within her, the aftershocks sending dazzling spots before his eyes.

They lay side by side, placing gentle kisses on each other, as the rush of mating subsided. His balled his fist into her long thick mane of brown hair, a shielding encirclement of him around her. Her hand gently pushed against the wall of his chest, her head resting in the nook of his arm.

Sleepily, the two watched as the moon gave way to the dawn, which slowly rose and crept into their window, guarding them as they slept.

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Gawain grew worried as the sun began to set behind the clouds. Arthur had not yet left his bed. Galahad sauntered into the great hall, sitting next to his friend, and whispered, "Will he be coming down to dine?"

As they spoke, Artorious and Illora wandered down the stairs, hand in hand, and entered the hall, with an air of satisfaction and shine about them. Silently, he pulled out a chair, sitting alongside his at the table. Illora sat quietly, smiling, her dress a beautiful and deep purple. She looked elegant and refined. She turned to Artorious, watching him intently as he sat in his throne. He turned, smiling at her, and took her hand in his, and gently raised it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss.

Gawain and Galahad watched in silence at the two, a small smirk dancing across their faces.


End file.
